


How to Be Dead

by kingcaboodle



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama & Romance, Elf-Blooded Hawke, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Hawke Family Feels, Hawke Has Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Templar Carver Hawke, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 11:18:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10570218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingcaboodle/pseuds/kingcaboodle
Summary: She wasn't the bravest or even the best for the job, but somehow this Shadow was thrust into power. The rise of a Champion stripped of her frills.





	1. No Good Deed

When thinking about the dangers of magic, many mages conjured images of abominations. Of pride demons and shades, of hulking masses of blistered flesh that no longer resembled anything close to human. Kali had been raised to fear demons in their most monstrous forms; to steer clear of the physical embodiments of rage, pride, and lust. While these images had been frightening – especially so to a child only now coming into her magic – she had grown to view the Wisp as the most frightening Fade-dweller of all.

 

She had come to this conclusion after her father had died, leaving her to bear the full brunt of her mother’s pent-up resentments. Leandra Hawke had done the best that she could’ve, at least that’s what Kali often tried to tell herself. She had thrown her nobility away for love, after all, for an apostate – an _Elven_ apostate – of all things.  Kali tried to understand this. She had tried to understand as a child scorned by a mother unable to cope with the idea of a daughter cursed with magic; and she tried to understand as an adult blamed for her father’s mistakes.

 

In this understanding she had found only one solution. To become a wisp herself. In Lothering it had been easy. The farm had ample enough space. When Leandra was feeling particularly _harried_ by her presence, Kali would retreat, leaving the twins to take care of their mother. And the system had worked. It had worked right up until their displacement, right up until the moment that Bethany was ripped from them by the ogre’s swinging fist.

 

If arriving in Kirkwall had taught her anything, it was that being a wisp was far more difficult in a two-room hovel in Lowtown. And after years of running from her problems, Hawke had been left with little coping skills in the face of conflict.

 

What a cruel twist of fate it was then that Kali would find herself surrounded by a new band of companions who not only disagreed on varying levels with each other, but also found a new sense of purpose in judging her every decision. She can feel the weight of their eyes on her back as she sees Merrill to the door of her new home in the alienage.

 

Merrill is obviously nervous, her large emerald eyes darting around to take in the sights of the small quarter. “Will you come visit me,” she asks, her lilting voice quivering slightly. “Not now, of course. But maybe later? I could use a friend.”

 

Kali feels a surge of pity. She sees her own fears of being a stranger in a strange land reflected in the mage in front of her, and for a moment she wants to pull her in for a reassuring embrace. Instead, she folds her arms tightly across her chest, smiling as comfortingly as she can. “I’d like that, Merrill.”

 

The undue gratitude from the other woman is worth the disapproving grunt that comes from the Elf standing a stone’s throw away. Kali waits until Merrill has disappeared into the house before turning back to the rest of her companions, and her attention is (thankfully) quickly diverted from Fenris’s icy stare to the commotion taking place at the base of the _vhenadahl_.

 

Child, missing, apostate.

 

Kali waits until the Templar leaves the weeping woman with one final word of warning before taking a cautious step forward. “It sounds like your son is in trouble,” she says hesitantly. “Is there anything I can do?”

 

“You,” the woman draws her hand across her tear-stained face. “You heard all of that and still you would help?” She glances at the staff at Kali’s back, and her eyes flood with understanding. “Oh,” she nods, wringing her hands in front of her. “Oh, thank you. I am Arianni. My boy, Feynriel, he’s all I have, all my family.” Her voice wavers, a new wave of tears looming on the edge of her tone. “When I learned he had magic, I,” she swallows. “I could not bear to send him to the Circle. But his connection to the Fade, it gives him nightmares. Dreams of demons speaking in his mind. I would rather lose him to the Circle than to himself.”

 

For the briefest of moments she can see them, the gnarled images of demons whispering from the Fade. Picking and prodding at every weakness, ever insecurity she has ever had. “What kind of dreams is he having?” She asks, though Kali fears she might already know.

 

“He dreams of demons,” Arianni’s voice is a shell of a whisper, her eyes flicking wildly in her head as though she too might hear the demons’ lilt. “Demons calling to him, pulling him into their world. Every day it grows harder to wake him. That is why I turned to the Circle. They are the only ones that can protect a mage from his own powers.”

 

Kali nods, her eyes sweeping over the curling tattoos on the grieving mother’s face. “Those look like _vallaslin_ ,” she says finally. “Are you Dalish? Why do you live in the city?”

 

“I was born to the Dalish, but came to Kirkwall for a time and,” she pauses, her cheeks reddening slightly, “dallied with a human merchant. Vincento. When I found I was with child, neither Vincento nor my tribe wished the burden of an elf-blooded human infant,” she sighs heavily. “I raised Feynriel myself, here in the alienage.”

 

Her father had been Dalish at some point along the way, some time before he had run off to Denerim, some time before meeting that beautiful noblewoman in Kirkwall. Kali feel sick, and she struggles to keep her focus on the task at hand. “What exactly do you need me to do?” She asks, her hands tightly curled balls at her sides.

 

“Just find him, please. Bring him somewhere safe,” Arianni pleads. “I don’t know where Feynriel has gone, but there are two places you might start your search. Ser Thrask has been looking for him. If you speak to him in the Gallows, he’ll be able to tell you what ground he’s already covered. And,” she looks hesitant, as though she isn’t sure whether or not the second option is worth giving out. “And Feynriel’s father, Vincento, recently returned from Antiva.” The hurt in her tone is palpable. “He’s a merchant in the Lowtown Bazaar. Feynriel might have sought him out.”

 

Kali ignores the reflection of her own broken home life staring back at her. Instead she turns her face to stone, and musters up a confidence she does not feel. “I will not leave you fearful for a moment longer than necessary.” She says.

 

And for a moment she is almost able to fool herself.

 

 


	2. Under Cover of Darkness

If the last year in Lowtown hadn’t been drenched in rumor, he might’ve accused her of being an imposter. The mage that stood before him lacked the bravado described by her Dwarven companion, and if he hadn’t known better, he might’ve pegged the glowering boy at her side to be the infamous shadow behind Athenril’s boost in successful smuggling runs.

 

 But Samson does know better.

 

He knows better, and that is why he isn’t surprised when Hawke finally creeps forward. Her movements uncertain, her eyes like two large, golden sovereigns glittering in her skull. She stands before him like so many young apostates before her, hands tangled in a nervous knotted mess, lower lip trembling as her hesitant mouth attempts to form the words. Samson watches her through patient, lidded eyes. He has been around long enough to know when a gentle hand is needed.

 

Apparently he is the only one, because the boy delivers a sharp nudge to her ribs. “Out with it, sis,” he whispers urgently.

 

“Right,” she mumbles this, straightening her spine for one moment of valiance before shrinking back into something not quite so boastful. “A-are you Samson?”

 

His response is a grunt, noncommittal. The less he said the easier things moved along. Talking meant information, made taking the coin a little harder than if he played stupid to what grim realities lay past the docks of Kirkwall. Silence kept him safe from consequence, kept him nicely sedated with all the Dwarf dust he could scrape up for a few coppers. As far as Samson is concerned, it keeps him as objective as he possibly can be.

 

Hawke leans on her staff as though she fears the ground might swallow her up without it. “We heard,” she pauses, and for a moment something flashes in her eyes. It’s something that Samson recognizes from his days in the Gallows. Something that tells him that he is not completely trusted. It only takes a moment, but that flash blossoms into a fit of temporary bravery, and she narrows her eyes. “Why would a Templar help apostates?”

 

Her tone is accusatory, and the way that she eyes him almost reminds him of being chided by a particularly stern school matron. He cocks a brow. When he had heard the stories of the infamous smuggler, he hadn’t expected a stammering girl who could only muster enough confidence to deliver bravery in bursts. “I’ve seen your lot, Hawke,” he says. “The apostates who come through the Gallows are children, barely coming into their powers.” His eyes flick to the faint trace of pointed ears poking through the dark curtain of her hair, “If you think that boy is the only mage to come out of the Alienage, you’re sadly mistaken. The Elves know the presence of an apostate will only serve to blight them further.” His head throbs, fingers straying to the lyrium kit at his hip. “I’m only providing a much-needed service to the more _disadvantaged_ mages of Kirkwall.”

 

_Disadvantaged_ , he thinks as she turns to speak in hushed tones with her companions. _Those too unfortunate to buy their way out._ His eyes flick over to the grim-faced redhead at Hawke’s side. _Or sidle up to a member of the guard._

 

Her arms are tight across her chest when she turns back to him, though Samson can no longer tell whether this is out of fear or mistrust. Her sunken posture implies the former, and yet there is something probing him from behind her eyes. Something hardened and angry. Finally Hawke speaks, her wispy voice floating along the night air. “Where is he?”

 

He directs her to the Docks, more than eager to get her out of his hair.  

 

“The Docks,” Hawke repeats, ochre eyes narrowing. “You’re sending young apostates, where, into a life of slavery? What happened to aiding _underprivileged_ mages?”

 

Samson must give her credit, the sharpness of her tone causing an embarrassed flush to creep up his neck. “I provide a needed service,” he repeats flatly. “A service, Hawke, not a charity. The boy couldn’t pay his fifty silver –”

 

“So you send him to his death.” She finishes.

 

“I sent him to someone else,” he replies hotly. “Someone who could’ve helped him better than I given his,” he feels his mouth set in a thin line, and he wishes he didn’t sound so damn disappointed with himself. “Given his financial situation.” Flicking a hand dismissively, he turns. “Believe what you want. I’ve given you all the information I have. You may do with it what you’d like.”

 

He can hear the whispers behind his back, and after some deliberation, he can hear her companions urge her on, their collective footsteps receding. Samson turns slowly, expecting to once again face the darkened alleys of Lowtown and their ever-present reminders of all his life’s misdeeds. Instead, he finds himself staring down Hawke, her tiny face filled with rage, her lower lip trembling with the possibility of tears.

 

“If,” she begins shakily. For a moment Samson sees the uncertainty flash behind her furious mask, and he thinks she may lose her zeal. But Hawke pushes on, jabbing a finger at him that sends threatening sparks dancing in front of his eyes. “If we don’t find Feynriel, I am holding you personally accountable.”

 

He almost snarls back, but the weight on his shoulders bears down far too heavily for him to put forth the effort. “You may do whatever you’d like,” he says wearily.

 

She doesn’t move, and Samson eyes her thoughtfully. He sees anger, yes, but more importantly helplessness. The type of helplessness that drove him into the depths of Lowtown out of the harsh light of day. For a moment he pities her.

 

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turns his back once more, heading for the steps that would take him far from the problems of any Elven apostates. “For your sake, Hawke,” he says over his shoulder, pausing ever-so-briefly at the foot of the stairs, “I do hope you find him.”

 

He can feel her eyes on his back until he is fully shrouded in the dark.


	3. Lies, Lies, Lies

“You could’ve waited for me to handle it.”

 

Kali lies on her back, counting the slats on the ceiling and wishing she could see the stars. It had always been so easy to see the stars in Lothering. On nights when the weather wasn’t bad, those nights when the sound of her breathing was enough to earn her mother’s ire, Kali took a spare bedroll out into the fields where she would count the flickering points of light and wonder if her father was somewhere among them.

 

Kirkwall is different. There is something about the air. Something very thick that hides the stars and clouds her better judgment. She cannot find the twinkling lights of her father’s eyes, nor can she seem to escape the sharp-eyed gaze of her mother. Being crammed into Gamlen’s Lowtown hovel had been a test in familial endurance that the Hawke family was surely failing. However, her desire to flee, to hide herself away until the smoke cleared had led her far from the safety of the farm and into the slaughter.

 

“You listening, Hawke?” Varric’s voice is rough, but not unkind as he rolls onto his side. “There’s no reason why that couldn’t have ended without violence.”

 

She wonders if he’ll let her stay the night, wonders if she even wants to. The first time this had happened, he had done a lot of the same. Used sex to ease the tension before setting down his two silvers’ worth of advice, where it had hung similarly in the thick, heavy afterglow. She had allowed him to take the reins then, had forgone her own reservations about joining up for this Deep Roads expedition. She had thought visiting the Hanged Man without Carver’s company would’ve allowed her to make a decision with a clear head. Instead it had ended with Varric’s hand on her thigh and Kali creeping out of the tavern in the wee hours of morning.

 

But the mess with Feynriel is different. Somehow it feels personal.

 

“I did what I had to do,” she replies stoically. Maybe it was the Dalish mother, the sight of another Elf-blooded mage looking for acceptance. “There are some things you can’t just talk your way out of.”

 

Varric stirs beside her, and from the corner of her eye she spies a look of displeasure cross his face. Finally, he sits up, pausing to search for his breeches on the floor before rising from the bed. “At any rate, we’ve still got plenty of time to work on your diplomatic talents.” He shoots her a grin, one that says that he is ready to drop the subject, “Or at least work on your lying.”

 

Her response is a slight frown, one that only weighs on her brow as she slowly searches for her own clothes among the scattered belongings on his bedroom floor. She dresses without a word, pulling the loose cotton shirt over her head and slipping into her breeches.

 

Varric has already returned to his assorted writings at the large table in the center of the room, and he glances up once he knows she’s already dressed. “You can stick around, you know.”

 

“I know,” she replies, even though she knows that neither of them really means it.

 

Her head is full of fog as she steps out into Lowtown. The events of the night swirl and twist around every lurking fear hiding in the corners of her brain until she is certain that her body will implode from the pressure. She stands at the foot of the crumbling steps leading to Gamlen’s, her throat swollen and her hands quaking at her sides. She searches her heart for her father’s voice, her only defense against the crushing weight of her own unceasing thoughts, but finds that she can only find her desire to flee. _It’s not like they need me around,_ she thinks frantically as she backs away from the hovel. _Carver has a good head on his shoulders. That’s why Mother relies on his so much, why_ – she can’t bring herself to allow the admission to come out as she turns and heads down a nearby alleyway.

 

Her feet carry her as fast as they can, her eyes rattling around in their sockets looking for any sign of trouble. _Just for a few days,_ her thoughts race wildly in her head. _Carver will head the expedition. He can manage the team, make sure everything goes right. He always knows what’s best, always fixing my mistakes. I just need to_ –

 

Her body collides with something hard and shrouded in the smell of smoke. Blinking wildly, she jolts back, feeling the lyrium surge through her veins as she braces herself for an assault.

 

“S’this how you treat your allies, then, Hawke?” The thick gravelly drawl of Raleigh Samson clears through her fog. “I never expected a reward, but being frozen to death?”

 

Kali hears her own ragged breathing in her throat as she slowly lowers her hands. The warmth slowly pools in her icy fingertips, the lyrium in her blood winding down to its usual lull. “You,” she wheezes, “you frightened me.”

 

He brushes the frost idly from his shoulder, “I see that. Did you find your mage?” His eyebrow quirks, briefly betraying the _ennui_ clinging to his tone. “Things have been quiet on the docks.”

 

“Among the slavers, you mean,” she replies. Maker knew that the entirety of Kirkwall had been buzzing about the commotion at the docks surrounding the stranded Qunari fleet. “Let’s just say you’ll need to find your coin elsewhere, Samson.”

 

Her voice is icy, but she regrets it when she meets his eyes. Bleary as it may be, there is something deep behind the look he gives her. Something contemplative. He heaves a heavy sigh as he leans against the wall of the alleyway. “I’m not in the business of slaving, Hawke.” He says finally, his eyes planted on his feet. “Maker knows I’ve done my fair share of misdeeds,” he glances up. “But I’m not a monster. These apostates, these children,” his mouth twitches, a barely concealed snarl catching his lips. “There are horrors worse than abominations and slavers,” he finishes.

 

It is in this moment that she feels incredibly childish, the thoughts of her sheltered life in Lothering playing over inside of her head. Though she had always been warned of the dangers of her talents, be they demon or Templar, the fact remained that the Hawke children had been raised in a household that encouraged them to use their skills. Her Father had always lived a life spent looking over his shoulder. From the Circle, from Humans, from anything posing a danger to the life he thought he deserved. He had seen to it that his children had never known a moment’s discomfort, not when he was alive. Kali thinks about the Gallows, thinks about what atrocities might have gone on for how long to drive a Templar to the streets. To aid those he once so fiercely guarded.

 

“It’s awfully painful,” she says quietly.

 

Samson grunts, a noncommittal answer for an equally vague statement. The smoke billows and curls around their heads, an understanding formed in ash.  


End file.
